Roman enjoying a sleep on our sofa.
The trouble is, he’s resting on Claire’s side!
My plans to spend the day playing Red Dead Redemption 2, from morning until night, were ruined again! I’d have got away with it too, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids. I lie. It wasn’t the fault of any children, I had to make a trip to Bristol, to go shopping in Asda – or as the locals of BS30 call it, “Asdoor”.
Take a look at the photos below, to see how we got on…
After we had been up and down every aisle in the entire superstore (that’s no exaggeration), loading the trolley until it was on the verge of overflowing, we headed towards the checkout. Sadly, we were not taking part in Supermarket Sweep, so we had to pay for everything.
As the cashier scanned our massive shop, Claire and I looked on anxiously, worrying at just how much everything would cost. Once it was time for payment, I half expected Dermot O’Leary to turn up, to reveal the grand total, as if he was on Comic Relief announcing how much had been raised.
I won’t reveal how much it all cost, but let’s just say, for the same amount of money, I could have bought an Xbox on Black Friday.
Claire and I are currently on annual leave for two weeks. Yes, I know I’ve only been back at work for little over a month, following a lengthy sickness absence, but I can now enjoy my time off, as I no longer feel poorly.
My initial plans of playing Red Dead Redemption 2, constantly over a 17 day period*, were scuppered when I remembered that I had to attend a couple of hospital appointments.
* In case Claire happens to be reading this, firstly, I love you. Secondly, that was a joke. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of playing Red Dead for all 17 days of my time off – that would be mad. I would, of course, take a day off from the virtual Wild West, for your birthday.
I therefore put down my Colt Revolver – AKA, the PS4 control pad – and headed back to my place of work, ON MY ANNUAL LEAVE! Claire also works at the hospital, so was no doubt equally cheesed off with spending her first day off, in such familiar surroundings.
Prior to meeting the doctor, I had to have some x rays taken. I felt grateful to be led down on a bed during the process, as it seemed to drag on for ages. I’m not good at counting, but I’d guess that they must have taken 15 million images of my bones. With all those photos being shot, I felt like one of Prince William’s kids – except, I was being photographed willingly, by a professional, respectful radiographer; whereas Prince George has his photos taken by a sleezy photographer, hiding in the bushes and working for The Daily Mail.
I then went to give blood. Before you start congratulating me for such a selfless act and saving a life, I was giving blood so that it could be tested. A small vial of the red stuff is taken – nothing close to a pint. Not the superhero you all thought I was now, am I? If it makes you feel any better, I am never given a biscuit afterwards. I hear you get one if you donate blood (so do it right now!**).
** OK, not literally right now. I don’t want to be accused of encouraging anyone to run down to their kitchen and grab the nearest carving knife.
Upon entering the blood test clinic, I was given a card with a number on it. I was number 1. Fantastic, I thought – I know how the delicatessen at Asda works – I’m next in. I would be back home, playing Red Dead Redemption, in no time. To my annoyance, the system didn’t work like a supermarket deli.
The clinic only has 40 cards, so once Patient #40 has been seen, the department starts again with Patient #1. I was that patient. I soon discovered Patients #35, #36, #37, #38, #39 and #40 were all in front of me!
Waiting to have blood taken is like waiting in line, for a ride at Alton Towers. The only difference is what you get once you reach the end of the queue. One involves being pierced with a needle and lots of blood. The other involves being pierced by a metal pylon, losing a limb and lots of blood.
As I waited, I read the front covers of the leaflets on the wall… PARKINSON’S. MS. EPILEPSY. I told Claire that given all my other ailments in recent years, I would end up getting one of those three nasty conditions and maybe I should take the leaflets home in preparation. I didn’t take any.
I was eventually called into a room, so my blood could be taken. I had a long wait, while the two ladies, gifted with the task of taking my blood, played on a computer. Somehow I don’t think they were on Minecraft. It appeared that they were unable to find a single record of my blood appointment.
Given the fact my job primarily involves working on the hospital’s computer system, I could have waded in to help. I didn’t. The reasons… I don’t believe that I should see or have anything to do with my hospital records. Secondly, I insist on keeping my time as an employee and a patient totally seperate. Finally, the women probably knew full well what they were doing – probably more than me – so offering help could come across as rude, and you don’t want to annoy somebody who is about to stick a needle into your vein!
My blood test request could not be found anywhere. I therefore left the hospital with my original quota of blood and slightly more radioactive than two hours earlier.
When it comes to home security, some people get burglar alarms, while others invest in a guard dog. We have something slightly similar – a guard rabbit.
I’m glad to see that my licence fee is funding such in-depth and revealing sports journalism…